Running the 5k or If You're Bucky It's a 6k
by Voodoosgirl
Summary: A Thanksgiving Day food coma. An Internet search for a good deed. An online alias name generator. Numbers divisible by 3. A 5k race for a worthy cause. Bucky's race is a 6k. Add in a kigurumi and let the betting begin!
1. Chapter 1

"Hey. You two. Rogers. Barnes. For heaven's sake, go to your room."

Natasha tossed a pillow at the other end of the sofa. "We're trying to recover here."

Steve was in the corner, his legs stretched out on the ottoman. Bucky was perched straddling his lap. She had been trying to not look at them for the past fifteen minutes but the faint moaning noises that followed the licking sounds were getting more than a little distracting.

She dared to look over the top of her latest copy of Pointe Magazine at the two scruffy faces, mouths pressed together in a deep and languid kiss. Bucky's hands were roaming over Steve's shoulders and chest. Natasha could barely see Steve's face under the cascade of brown hair. She lowered the magazine like a reverse curtain at a burlesque show, hoping clothing was still involved. There they were. Steve's hands gripping the place on Bucky that would correlate with love handles if he had love handles, which he didn't. What he had was muscle, a whole lotta muscle. She noticed this. Often.

She assessed the undulating hips; slow and methodical, they rolled gently back to front encouraged by Steve's hands. Sensual pliant rolling. She pictured a sunny day, a cross-country hunter jumper course, a sleek horse pacing through a slow collected canter.

She wondered when Barnes had learned to ride.

She went back to her magazine when Steve's fingers began to caress the skin under the Captain America sleep pants.

They were all lost in the post-Thanksgiving meal stupor of turkey-induced tryptophan overload, compounded by a dollop of carb coma driven by sweet potato pie and eggnog. At least she and Sam were lost.

The super serum soldiers didn't observe that phenomenon with loosened belt buckles and snoring on the sofa while listening to the endless football chatter on TV. Their celebration was sex. Long, slow and apparently as an exhibition. Not if Natasha had anything to do with the chosen location. "Boys seriously, rent a room. Oh wait, you have a room, two of them, use one!"

They ignored her.

"Sam. What's going on." She tossed her attention to him and held another pillow up to block her view of the deep throat action that Barnes was inflicting on a way-too-willing-to-accept Steve Rogers.

"Facebook. I"m on Facebook." He never looked up.

"You didn't use your real name right?"

"No. That's something Barnes would do. I made one up."

"Birdman." A voice heavy with as yet unfulfilled sexual cravings wafted from the make-out session.

"No Barnes. Not Birdman. Too simplistic."

Natasha humored him "What did you use?"

"This is great. Ready?" He swung around to add emphasis by actually looking at her. "Ok, ready? Slaws Mino." He added a 'ta-da' sort of hand gesture.

Natasha stared blankly.

Bucky's hips stuttered.

Sam could see Steve's left eye peek out from under the curtain of hair.

The stunned silence lasted a few seconds until Bucky's attempt to stifle a laugh ended with him spitting on Steve's head. "Sorry."

Steve used his hair to wipe it off.

"Where the hell did you dream that up." Natasha groaned.

"Hey, it's an anagram. I used an anagram generator online. It's my name."

"That's stupid." Barnes went back to grinding and kissing.

Steve went back to being a willing participant.

Natasha picked up her magazine.

Sam went back to Facebook.

"Black Friday sales. Everywhere. Look at this deal on a grill, we need a new one."

"How could we need a new one we just bought one during the summer." Natasha humored him by answering.

Sam nodded his head towards the dynamic duo in the corner. He added in hushed tones, "Remember? Barnes blew up the last one testing out the C4 detonators."

Natasha gave him the thumbs up. It was still a sore spot for Steve since it took out the back porch windows and half the siding on the garage.

It was hard to explain to the fire department.

"Yes sir, I understand sir. C4 is not a toy. My incorrigible assassin boyfriend who is peeing his pants laughing at us right now won't ever do that again. I promise sir. I swear it. Pinky finger swearing."

Steve didn't really say any of that except for the thousand times he said "I'm sorry and no I'm not Steve Rogers, former Captain America. He doesn't have a beard. I do."

The husky sex desiring voice chimed in from the sofa. "Black Friday? Is that like Bloody Sunday?"

Sam looked at Natasha. She looked back.

They did a lot of that when it came to Barnes.

"Bloody Sunday?" Sam was truly perplexed.

Natasha caught the reference too late to thwart the anxiety attack.

"Bloody Sunday!" Barnes was pacing the room in half a heartbeat; panting and pacing and generally working himself into a full-blown panic in less than three seconds, not four, not two. Three seconds.

Steve still had his hands in midair, the fingers twitching looking for the hips that were just there a second ago.

Natasha used the pillow to block all below the waist views of both of them. At least she made the gesture of blocking the view as she justified her peeking.

"I mean really, how could a girl not look at the aftermath of aborted foreplay?"

"I was there, I think. Bloody Sunday. No? Yes!" Bucky pointed wildly at Natasha and shouted at Steve. "Yes! I was there. 1972 Northern Ireland, peaceful protesters shot by soldiers. Shit; shit. I did that!"

It was always hard when he remembered the bad stuff.

Steve caught his arm and pulled him out of the pacing. Looping his steps, pulling his forward motion down to land in an embrace. "Ok let's just take a deep breath and move through this one." His hand on his chest, he breathed long and slow, matching their breathing in and out.

"Focus." He whispered close. Steve was getting good at this part; talking him down from the memories.

Bucky settled in the corner of the sofa. "My turn."

Steve flopped next to him. "So it's Thanksgiving. We've got a lot to be grateful for; maybe we should do something to give back."

"Steve, we fight aliens to save the world, isn't that enough?" Bucky wasn't ungrateful; it was just that he'd won the prized corner seat and was optimizing his 'make out with Steve from the right side position.'

Face buried in Steve's neck; check.

Hands snaking under the too tight T-shirt; check.

One leg tucked between Steve's; check.

Pillows to hide the erections; priceless.

Sam chimed in, "I'm grateful. Grateful for pecan pie; a decent internet connection out here in the middle of the Adirondacks; and wings."

Natasha had adopted the Thanksgiving concept. "I'm grateful for a roof over our heads; Ben and Jerrys Chocolate Therapy, and no aliens."

Bucky was back to the husky sounding voice muffled by Steve's cheek. "Yup. Grateful. Food. The Glock in my pocket and Steve likes to top."

"TMI buddy. Grateful too, but TMI."

His further mumble of "And he's great at it." Was thankfully consumed by Steve's mouth.

"Okay. Good Deeds." Sam was back on the search. "Well, we could collect canned goods for a shelter."

"We do that anyway." Natasha tossed the magazine on the coffee table.

"We do?" Sam was always a bit behind the inner workings of the house.

"Yup. Where do you think all those cans of spaghetti end up?"

Barnes stopped humping Steve's side. "What about my spaghetti O's?"

"Barnes buys it by the caseload. I donate it." She picked up a nail file and went to work.

"You gave away my spaghetti O's? Damn, woman."

"You buy it and never eat it. It'll go bad. You're a spaghetti hoarder."

"You coulda asked." He laced some genuine hurt in his tone but Natasha was a pro, she knew he was full of BS. Besides, he was back to sucking on Steve's ear before he'd even said the word 'asked.'

"Alrighty then. We could pick a stretch of the highway and clean it."

It was Bucky's turn to stare, which meant the idea was a particularly bad one for him to be distracted from face time with Steve.

Sam worked to recover. "Ok then, the peanut gallery is glaring. So, next idea. Here, how about this one. Save the Whales."

Bucky stopped mid-suck and looked thoughtfully at Sam, then; "Too much swimming."

This time even Steve stared. "You do know that saving the whales does not involve swimming."

"I know that." Bucky was always quick to recover.

Sam decided to no longer offer up random ideas until he'd found one that was worthy of group discussion; everyone in the group.

"Wait here's a good one. A 5k race to benefit Aids research on December 1, 2017."

Natasha stopped filing "That sounds interesting; details."

"Get a group together, get sponsors, run to benefit research." Sam was feeling he had the mojo going on this idea.

"Five thousand meters?" Seems the idea had piqued Bucky's interest. He had partially detached from Steve's body.

"Yes. 5k, you know what 5k is; come on, all that time with Hydra." Sam was getting cranky, the eggnog sugar high was wearing off. He was getting the sweats.

"We can't run five thousand meters, it has to be six thousand. We can run 6k."

"6k? That's not the race distance, it has to be 5k." The sweat was beading on Sam's forehead a sure sign he needed a pecan pie refill.

"I don't care. We, me and he, will run 6k. Right, Steve?" Bucky held fast to his OCD fetish of three and divisible by three. Any mention of numbers, and distances, or steps or bullets (thankfully his Glock held fifteen) It all had to be in the three family. "It's my coping mechanism." He deadpanned. "My therapist says so."

They didn't catch on to the numbers thing for a while. It got interesting. Sam thought he was losing his mind. Or that Barnes was gas-lighting him just for the hell of it. Every time he'd set four plates out for dinner, one would disappear. It was always at the chair where Barnes would sit.

"I know I set our four plates." Sam would complain.

"Sam what's the deal. It isn't funny to leave him out." Steve got defensive when it came to Barnes. Always thinking Sam was somehow dissing him.

"I am not excluding him. I set the table with four plates every time. And every time there are three just before dinner."

"Well, I don't believe in ghosts so what's going on."

Bucky never said a word. He'd just stand in the corner perfecting the impassive 'Mom and dad are arguing over me look' and watch that argument drone on. A lot like that smug cat that everyone has met; the one that watches the poor fool of a dog get scolded for the broken flower vase that obviously was a cat thing; not a dog thing.

Sam finally got fed up and turned on the forbidden surveillance cameras. (A whole other adventure in the land of Anxiety After Hydra Syndrome.)

"Look. Just look at this." He pointed with great and personal emphasis at the screen for Steve. "It was him all along." HIM. Said with the undertone of "That asshole."

So. The three fetish. They finally agreed to set the table for three and left one plate in the cabinet that Bucky would take out for himself so he could feel he had some control over his own anxiety.

"Ok 6k for you and Steve. The rest of the entire world will run in the 5k." Sam was needing that sugar break for sure.

"That many? Wow. Imagine the starting line chaos." Bucky was living up to his asshole status.

"Great. Let the planning begin!"


	2. Chapter 2

Sam announced. "We'll need to register a team. We'll need names. And sponsors."

"I'll get the sponsor." Natasha grabbed her phone.

"Sponsor? Shouldn't we get more than one? We need to raise a lot of cash."

"Everyone we know is either broke or Asgardian. I only know one rich guy and that's who I'm calling."

Sam turned to the computer with a flourish. "Alright let's get some names going. Nat, you're up first. How's this one? Navarosh Amantoa."

The room was quiet.

"No? Fine. How about, Shanata Voramano?"

The room was not quiet. Bucky's distinctive loud snicker drew a side-long glance from Natasha.

She instructed. "Try again."

"Got it. Savannah Roamota."

Bucky's outright laugh was cut short by a discreet elbow from Steve.

Natasha was grateful. For the elbow and the improved alias. "Works for me."

"Steve. You're up next."

Bucky sat up. "This should be good."

Sam took a deep breath before offering. "Grores Veets."

The room was quiet briefly.

"Grores? Grores! I love it." Bucky swung to straddle Steve and growled. "Oh, Grores! Deeper Grores, Fu..."

Steve's hand covered his mouth. "Next option."

"OK. Vergers Sote." Sam cringed as soon as he said it.

Bucky licked Steve's palm before pulling away to laugh. "Even better!" He started another gravelly voiced mocking but it was cut short when Steve dumped him on the coffee table.

It held up. Reinforced steel was the key. All the furniture had been modified from the time of Bucky's Big Breakdown. Anything that couldn't withstand being tossed against a wall was discarded.

It made Amazon shopping harder but the adjustment was worth it in the end.

"Here we go. Greves Roset."

"Works for me." Steve chimed in quickly.

Bucky was still cackling as he planned his evening's entertainment. All the annoying ways he could whisper Grores or Vergers or Greves in the middle of sex.

It was going to be a long night for Steve.

"Finally. Last but certainly not the least among us. Barnes."

Bucky stopped laughing. He remained supine on the coffee table though.

"Sucken Byarb."

Steve tried to not laugh. Bucky and sullen did not go well together. Laughing at him was a known trigger.

"No. That sucks."

"Next. Scrubby Kane."

Natasha nodded. "Scrubby works."

Steve remained neutral. It was his best tactic until Bucky's opinion could be read.

"No. Stupid. I am not a Scrubby."

Sam was getting frustrated. "One more then that's it, find your own alias. Last one. Cranks Yebub."

"Perfect!" Steve blurted out. It would cost him later. But now he had a comeback for the post-coital "Oh, Vergers!" whispers.

"NO! Not acceptable." Bucky was on his feet in a second from flat on his back.

Natasha admired his abdominal control. Hell, Sam admired it. Steve was already closely acquainted.

"I'll use my code name. Dodger." He stalked to the kitchen.

Steve gave some thought to more serious matters, like cleaning the bathroom, to refocus himself before tagging behind him.

Natasha headed for the fridge. She ignored Bucky as he leaned across the far end of the kitchen island.

Mostly she ignored him because Steve was wrapped tightly around his back with his hands discreetly buried somewhere on Bucky's bare skin.

Sometimes she just ignored him independent of whether Steve was attached or not.

"What are you boys up to now?" It was a rhetorical question. What they were up to was obvious.

Steve offered. "Nothing."

He was doomed really. He still had some 1940's sensibilities. Sex only in the bedroom. Cover the trash can. Don't litter.

Then Bucky came back. "We're engaged in foreplay. Get out of here."

She prolonged her search inside the fridge just to mess with their rhythm.

Followed by annoying small talk. "So we have a team name. Interested?"

"No." Bucky grabbed the paper towels to unroll them across the island and down the sides.

Steve remained the polite one. "Yeah. Sure." But he didn't give up his attached-to-Bucky position.

"Secret Avengers." She poured a glass of eggnog.

"Great idea. Now go away."

Steve looked concerned. "Is that a good idea? It's so obvious."

"Hide in plain sight. No one's going to think it's real Rogers, lighten up." She took a seat and proceeded to drink her eggnog, slowly.

Bucky killed time studying the uplifting pseudo-caligraphy message emblazoned across each and every sheet of the towels.

"What the hell is this on here?"

"A little light reading." Natasha retrieved the roll from the floor to study the prose from her end.

Sam wandered in. He didn't want to miss this. The paper towel message was his idea and his specific target was directly in the crosshairs. He tugged off a random sheet and read the message aloud.

" _ _Each Morning is a New Opportunity to Shine. A Chance to Give the Past a Kick in the Pants and the Future a Bear Hug."__

"Just for grumpy you, Barnes." Sam was proud of himself, "Always thinking of you, pal."

"I am not grumpy and I am definitely not your pal." He twisted around to face Steve, his hands wandering to pull hips closer, the throaty murmured declaration of "I am his pal and only his pal" was nearly lost in the deep throat kiss that ensued.

"Fine. Not your pal, but I'm Nat's pal, right?"

Natasha shrugged, sipped her eggnog and headed to the living room.

"Damn."

Later that night Bucky used all six rolls of paper towels to clean his guns. Even though you never use paper towels to clean guns. He made an exception this time.

Even later that night Natasha and Sam had to turn on the sound machine. Again. It was too annoying to listen to the mournful moans of "Greves" and "Scrubby!"

,

5K 12/1/17 World Aids Day here we come!

Sam was spearheading their efforts. "We're ready to go. Run as a team. That means Rogers you need to stay with us. Or run circles around us."

"Right Rogers. You need to stick close, no racing off by yourself." Bucky's anxiety was growing. He didn't like crowds, or people, or loud noises, except when fighting. He definitely didn't like losing sight of Steve.

Missions were different. He had a gun or three in his possession and a job to do. Running wasn't a job. It was something to be endured for the sake of the mission.

"Got it. I'll be right with you." Steve didn't like losing sight of him either.

Bucky frowned as he scanned Sam's approach with their entry paperwork. "What the hell are you wearing?"

Sam ignored him. He was pretty stoked about his and Natasha's matching spandex. He wasn't going to let Downer Dodger ruin his high.

"How come we don't match like that?" Bucky whispered when Steve tried to head for the restroom.

"Spandex? You want spandex?"

Bucky gave that a thought. "I can think of one situation where that would be interesting and it doesn't involve being in public."

Natasha wandered into their private conversation. "What? No Captain America sleep pants?"

"I couldn't find them."

Natasha winked at Steve. He shrugged. It was conveniently laundry day that morning.

"What's that about?" Bucky caught the little side action. His paranoia served a purpose most days. Kept him safe, alert to danger and threats and other subterfuge. Like Nat and Steve winking at one another in knowing ways.

"Something in my eye." She rubbed vigorously. "I'm shocked. No Cap gear."

"I'm wearing Cap gear. All day, every day. Cap gear." Bucky nuzzled in close to Steve's ear.

"I'm afraid to ask."

"On my underwear. Little tiny shields."

"How appropriate."

Steve frowned. "You don't even wear underwear."

Natasha retreated from the underwear conversation but added, "Gonna be a long 5K. Sorry. 6K."

Bucky mumbled. "Wearing them today. And they have little shields on them."

"Numbers. Here we go. Steve, you're number 43. Natasha's got 34, I've got 7 and Barnes you're 22."

Bucky stared with some disappointment at the white sheet of paper with the large block 22 on it. Everyone else pinned on their numbers. Nat and Sam started stretching.

Bucky stared more.

"You Ok?" Steve jogged tight circles around him.

"No."

"What's wrong? This is easy. 6K there and back. Home for dinner in under two hours."

"No. I can't go." Bucky held the paper like it was poisoned.

"What is it?"

"The number, Steve. I can't use that number."

He stopped jogging. "Take mine."

"That won't work. It has to be divisible by 3. You know that."

"It's just a number on a piece of paper."

"No, it's not. It's more than that."

"Come on, let's ask for a different number then." Steve led the way.

But registration was closed. "We gave them all out."

Bucky stood at the desk, holding his disappointing number 22.

Steve tugged him towards the restrooms. "We'll think of something. Let me take a leak. I'll be right back."

"Don't leave me."

"Buck. Stand right here. Two minutes."

Bucky stood dutifully in the assigned spot. His anxiety was a pain in the ass at times like this.

It stirred up the voice in his head. The one that made fun of him with snide remarks and reminded him of what a loser he was.

Thankfully the Voice had been mostly quiet over the last few months. Getting on track with redemptive work helped. Bucky was convinced that sex with Steve was the key. The optimized medication regime was at the bottom of the list.

Stress was never helpful.

" _You can't even wear a non-three related number for two hours? What's the point of recovery if you're still stuck on threes?"_

"Shit. Go away. I got this. Your help is not needed."

" _Right. You're going to do what now? Go home? Wait at the bike? Cry? How about you trade numbers with someone."_

He stared at the paper. Looked around. Looked for Steve. Back at the paper. He hated when the Voice had a good idea.

"Ah. Hi. Would you consider trading numbers with me?" His third target didn't run away immediately.

The first attempt at number trading was a lesson learned.

" _Don't stare at a woman's chest, Soldier."_

"I know that. I'm socially awkward not stupid. I'm staring at the numbers. Besides the only chest I'm interested in is Steve's."

The second target situation went south fast. He was a big brawny guy with a magnificent 3 on his chest.

" _Perfect! Soldier. A solid single digit 3!"_

Bucky asked for his number. Specifically, he said, "Hey, wanna trade numbers?"

Innocent enough. It went downhill from there.

"He asked for my number. I thought he meant the race numbers. How was I supposed to know he meant phone numbers?"

" _You should've given it to him. He was hot."_

Bucky hated the Voice for a lot of reasons.

He utilized his newly cultivated skill of discretion to walk away after the guy's hand started exploring his back, then hip then got a lot more personal.

"Not telling Steve about this one. He'll use the handcuffs again."

 _"_ _I recall you really got off on those handcuffs. Maybe you should tell him."_

The Hand of Hydra didn't generally utilize a soft approach but Steve had been a good influence.

The asset would have shoved the targets to the ground, ripped the number off their chest and thrown a crumpled number 22 at them.

The softer approach seemed to be working with the third target. A young wisp of a girl with a New York Rangers baseball cap, a long blonde French braid and a larger than life 33 on her chest. Applying the earlier feedback, he stared at her ball cap.

"Right. So I have a problem." He shifted his feet letting his anxiety flow downward.

The young woman eyed him with some suspicion.

"I have OCD." He blurted out before she could run screaming for the cops. Like the stupid second target guy did.

"I have anxiety and I can't wear this number 22. It won't work." He held it out like a dirty diaper.

She eyed him but didn't leave.

"I need the number 3 or divisible by 3. You have 33. That would work. So. Would you trade?"

He waited patiently for the big moment hoping he wouldn't have to throw her unconscious body in a dumpster so he could run this damn race with Steve and be done with it.

"Hey. Where were you? I came out and you were gone." Steve caught up with Bucky and the others at the back of the starting crowd.

"Oh, I was fine. Just walking around."

"I see you found a better number, 33. How'd that happen?"

"I traded with someone."

"Great. I didn't know that was allowed but great. As long as you're happy. I'm happy." Steve threw an arm around his shoulder and planted a quick kiss on his cheek despite being in public.

"Yeah well, I can be pretty persuasive." He mumbled.

A man on the PA system called out: "Alright everyone lets get this race started!"


	3. Chapter 3

"Runners to the front; walkers in the middle; dogs and their humans to the back of the crowd!"

"And we're off!" The pop of the starting gun sent the excited horde on their way.

Team Secret Avengers loitered at the rear.

Behind the dog brigade.

"Barnes, watch your step!" Sam offered, "Someone forgot their poo bags."

His kindness was gifted with a classic scowl and an awkward stumble. "Right, I see it."

Steve bounced intensely as the walkers and dogs slowly lurched forward.

"You're vibrating. Stop it." Bucky instructed from his sprawl across the hood of a parked car.

"Feeling good. Energized. Aren't you excited about this?"

"Me? Excited? Wildly." He added extra syllables to wildly and adjusted his pose for genital comfort.

Natasha jogged by waving a purple wristband. "Rogers. I almost forgot. Here. Make Barnes wear this. See ya."

She tried to shove it in his hand.

"Whoa, wait a minute. What's this about?" He grabbed her wrist.

"It's a pedometer." She jogged away as far as their connected arms would allow.

"Why this and why just him?"

Natasha jogged backward. "It's required. Race rules."

Steve frowned his protect-Barnes-at-all-cost frown.

Sam opted for distance while watching the pedometer pass off. He stood on the sidewalk, smiling. A lucrative bet with Natasha was on the line. The question: Can Natasha get Steve to put that pedometer on Barnes?

"Steve will do it. He can get him to do anything." She retorted with confidence.

Sam laughed one of those melodramatic mocking laughs. "Money. Put up the money. No way."

Not one to be cowed by a mocking laugh, Natasha dug in her pockets. "$1.84 you are on, Birdman. If Rogers can get Barnes to clean the fridge then he can get this damn pedometer on his wrist."

"Big spender."

They chose not to rehash the minor point that Barnes cleaned the fridge by throwing out every single item in it, including the thermometer.

Sam watched the scam unfold.

The Steve and Natasha pas de deux reminded him of a Beauty and the Beast Disney on Ice production he'd watched on the Cartoon Network one sleepless night at 4 AM.

It was a beautiful thing.

Natasha curled in against Steve's chest, "He has to wear it." She jogged away.

Steve held tight to her hand. "Wait. Let me guess. The sponsor. It's Stark isn't it?"

"Shhh. Not too loud. Barnes is right there."

He tugged her in for the dramatic embrace. "Why? Why only Bucky?"

She looked up, batted her eyes and whispered. "Money. It's all about the money."

Bucky's mumbled voice interrupted. "You do know that discussing me while I am within earshot is a trigger for my anxiety. It pains me." He played the sympathy card frequently since the odds of it working were about one out of three. Not a bad return on little investment.

Natasha ignored him. "Steve. Five thousand dollars a kilometer. Each of us. But only if Barnes wears the pedometer. Stark thinks he'll cheat."

Steve reflected on this test of his loyalty. He was true to Bucky; defended him against 117 nations, Hydra, Pierce, Stark, and now even his teammates. Steve would suffer, starve, die for Bucky. He stood with a determined, contemplative look on his face for a minute, then two, then to the magic number three.

"You're taking too long there pal. What's the problem?" Bucky pushed up from his sprawl.

Steve's internal debate rapidly descending into a Freudian Trio trope, complete with a good angel, bad angel and Steve stuck in the middle.

A long-haired guy with a metal arm took on the dual angel roles.

Bad Angel: "Listen, buddy, that's a lot of money for a worthy cause."

Good Angel: "Stark is screwing with me. Again. There's no debate here."

Bad Angel: "Don't listen to that crybaby. Stick that purple bracelet on him and let's get going."

Good Angel: "Sex, Steve, sex. I have a bag of condoms and I know how to use them."

Bad Angel: "Rogers, come on. I know you've got a dark side. Take the bracelet. You've seen him after a fight, he looks good in purple."

Natasha interrupted the debate by wiggling the pedometer in his face.

The dog brigade had moved along, all the runners and walkers were fading into the distance. A decision had to be made.

Steve set his jaw and braced for the aftermath. "Give it to me."

"No way, Rogers." Bucky pulled his punch at the hood, he already had the cops looking for him, no sense adding to his list of offenses during this outing. He added an awkward spin move instead and shouted, "Traitor. Hey! Anybody need a bag of condoms!"

Steve started laughing and wrapped the offensive purple item around his own wrist. "Calm down. People are staring."

Bucky didn't miss a beat. He full body pinned Steve against the car to preview his post-race plans of how deep he could push his tongue into Steve's mouth without making him choke.

Secretly, Steve loved this part.

"Okay, we're out." Natasha's good-bye fell on deaf ears as she and Sam followed the pack. The great bet debate would go on through the race and on into the night. The $1.84 sat in the swear jar for a week. Bucky finally stole it. He justified the theft as righteous since it was about him anyway.

Steve ran ahead; around, up, down. On the road, the sidewalk, over a hill, if there was a dale, he'd have run through it.

Bucky plodded along, slow and steady; never quite losing sight of Steve, at first. He was persuaded to let him run amok when the prize was bilking Stark of a few thousand dollars. His usual pool of mild melancholia was replaced by a quiet joy at the ruse. His cautious uncharacteristic excursion into happy thoughts was suddenly interrupted.

"Hello!"

Bucky kept running. Eyes on the road. There were those doggie landmines after all.

"Hi. Remember me?" A number 22 woman with a Rangers ball cap fell in beside him.

Anxiety sweat started forming in his armpits. "No. That wasn't me staring at your chest."

"You never took your eyes off my hat. I liked that." She laughed and added, "We traded numbers. Remember?"

"Right. Numbers. Good. See me run. See me run with people around." He followed that little commentary with a mumbled, "See me run while not chasing an alien or a bad guy."

"I couldn't help but notice you look nervous."

"Me? Nervous? No, no I'm good. I got this." Now the sweat was creeping up his neck making him grateful for the ponytail. Not that he ever gave much thought to his hair. Well, except to keep it long. For Steve. Who knew he'd have a hair fetish? Bucky wasn't one to complain, about Steve's hair fetish anyway.

"I'll run with you. Maybe that will help."

He mumbled. "Who are you?" Mostly because she interrupted his loose and tangential thought process involving sex with Steve. And hair pulling. He vowed he wouldn't give up the quest to get Steve to grow his out just a little. Fair is fair.

"Naomi. My name is Naomi. Nice to meet you." She extended her hand.

He stared at the offering for long enough that he only had a nanosecond to respond with a cool twisting avoidance maneuver before plowing over another wisp of a woman, this one with a baby stroller occupied by a medium sized fluffy dog.

The Winter Soldier was a well trained, agile, competent athlete. Bucky felt it showed in how he gracefully danced away from a near total disaster. Unfortunately, the bevy of onlookers disagreed. The spiraling move devolved into a stumble, followed by a knee skid and a tight tuck and roll, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws that grazed his face as he soared past the stroller. His landing culminated with his signature move; the metal fingers dragging on the concrete with enough of a screech that his new bestie Naomi displayed a tilted head look of wonder.

"Shit." The swear word was out before he could contain it.

"Are you okay? I'm so sorry."

Bucky employed another adept move to recover into an upright stance before Steve could see him.

"Good, I'm fine."

" _You're quite the charmer, Soldier. You nearly killed that woman and her dog. A big man like you running over them. You never used to be this clumsy. Maybe it's time for a brain wipe."_

"Are you hurt? That sounded, awful." Number 22 was full of concern.

"Yup. All good."

" _She heard our metal arm. Look at her. She's intrigued. Show her. Go ahead, show her. Do it, Soldier. Do it. Do it. Do it."_

Sometimes the Voice was a lot like Steve. The way he'd goad him into eating ghost peppers whole or jump off the roof into a deceptive leaf pile. Or like his most recent dare; putting all of Natasha's wool sweaters in the dryer.

His ability to resist Steve was nonexistent. Even if it meant sleeping in an undisclosed location for a week and spending his pilfered money on replacement sweaters.

Steve ruled all of Bucky.

The Voice came in a distant second.

He looked at the torn glove on his metal hand; he envisioned pulling it off, waving at the gawking crowd, shaking hands. "Nope. Not today."

" _Come on Soldier, do it. Tell her about Hydra. Women looovvve a bad boy. Especially one with a tortured past and a heart of gold. Not that you have a heart of gold. You don't. Oh, right and the hair, they love that hair!"_

Bucky's groan doubled him over and led to a snarled, "Shut up!"

His new found friend was worried. She enlisted assistance.

"Are you alright?" A woman in green scrubs with a stethoscope around her neck came into the scene.

"Yeah. Cramp."

" _So creative. Remind me to never get caught in spy games with you."_

 _"_ Piece of s..." Bucky cut short his witty if vulgar comeback since he still had enough awareness that he was drawing a crowd.

"Here, you look pale, drink this." Naomi deftly ripped open a packet of electrolytes with her teeth and shook it into a bottle of water all while continuing to jog in place. Bucky observantly noted she hadn't missed a step since the whole adventure began.

" _A woman after your own heart. No moss growing under her feet. Maybe a good option if things don't work out with your boyfriend. Ask for her number, it worked so well with that guy earlier. Who knew a race was such a great place to cull some action."_

Once again, timing is everything. The Voice's comment came as Bucky swigged down the water.

He coughed. Then choked.

The stethoscope woman yelled with authority; "Can you speak? Are you choking?"

He really did try to speak. He wanted to speak. He wanted to yell, "Everyone, just get the fuck away from me. You're stressing me out!" But for whatever reasons, anxiety, embarrassment, water in his trachea, whatever: no words came out.

Then he did it, the sure universal sign for choking. His hand went to his neck.

It was over.

His anxiety morphed into a white cascade of stars with strange haunting music in the background as the medic wrapped her arms around his middle and did a series of intense and perfect jabs up. Heimlich and Hydra would've been proud.

Steve breezed past the police controlled crowd at the starting line. The first time.

On his second 5k run he had to skirt around the enlarging but well-controlled crowd of women, baby strollers and a couple of squat dogs that couldn't take the 5k pace.

He got suspicious on the third time around. Bucky was nowhere to be found.

"Hey! Are you Steve?" Someone yelled.

His first impulse was to protest, "Nope. Just call me Greves. Not Steve. Don't know any Steve."

But the woman calling his name had a bold 22 on her chest. He thought he'd better fess up.

"Yeah. I'm Steve. Where is he?" No sense spending time on formalities. "Is he hurt? Are you hurt? Is anyone else hurt? Are there police involved?" He thought better of asking about aliens.

"No, no one is hurt. I think he had...a panic attack." Naomi whispered knowingly as she dragged him towards the milling crowd.

It parted in a wave to either side. He had a flashback to a childhood story, something about the Red Sea and Moses.

"Buck?"

"Steve!" Bucky jumped from his cross-legged meditative position on the hillside to crash into Steve for about three seconds then awkwardly shuffled around him. The aborted hug still got the dogs barking and drew a hushed chorus of "Awwws."

Steve would staunchly defend his red flush as being running induced.

"I didn't run the race. I barely got off the start line." They walked the race course side by side watching the cleanup crews.

"I ran it three times so that should cover you."

"Not the same thing. Stupid anxiety."

"Then let's run it now." Steve's fingers skimmed along Bucky's hand, a teasing invitation. "Let's go, dare ya to beat me."

"No. It's over. I missed it."

"Look the start line is right there, I know the finish line is still there I passed it three times already. It's not over 'til we say it is. Come on, Buck. Let's do this."

"You are a pain in the ass, Rogers." He groaned, then head-faked towards the bike. Steve fell for it or at least he acted like it.

Bucky got a three-second head start on their full out head to head 6K race that both of them won.

EPILOGUE

Bucky went home a mostly happy man. All things considered, it had been a productive day. He had a pocket full of phone numbers.

"No, no thank you, I have a boyfriend, see, he's right here." His protests fell on deaf ears.

"You're so cute!" An older woman pinched his butt.

"No really, Steve!"

"Sweetie, call anytime you need to talk." The woman with the dog winked.

He nodded dutifully.

"We can go for coffee," Naomi added as she gave him a peck of a kiss on his cheek.

"I don't drink coffee." He mumbled.

" _Don't lose the numbers, just in case things don't work out with the former Captain America."_

He clutched the rainbow colored bag of condoms in multiple textures and consistencies as they finally headed for the bike.

Steve messed with his hair, an affectionate gesture reserved for special occasions in public. In private, all reservations were off.

" _This is going to be great! Which color should we try first? They're ribbed! Imagine that!"_

"Gonna double the dose of the medications when we get home." Bucky threatened.

Steve bumped his shoulder, "So the Voice likes the condoms idea I take it."

It was always weird when Steve seemed to know what the Voice was saying.

That night, long after dark and after the Dec 1, 2017, 5k celebration day of remembrance was over. Team Secret Avengers settled down.

Stark's protests at the invoice and the photo evidence of who wore the pedometer rang through the house. "Rogers, you're even more of a jerk than Barnes." He paid up anyway. He's that kind of guy.

Natasha took the tongue lashing in stride. It was time well spent; she soaked her feet.

Sam shivered as he sat on the back deck, a light fall of snow hampering his detailed toothbrush work. He cursed the little crevices on the soles of his sneakers for being so receptive to dog poo. The one redeeming note to his self-appointed task; besides not stinking up the house; he smirked at the thought of Barnes yelling, "Who stole my toothbrush" in the morning.

Bucky tucked himself back against Steve's body, executing a perfect tight spoon of warmth and security for the requisite thirty minutes. A grounding touch that wasn't sex or pain but a reaffirming connection of two souls that were once lost to one another but not anymore.

Steve signaled the end of the thirty minutes with a bite on his ear and a whispered, "What color should we start with?"

Bucky laughed. "Purple."


	4. Chapter 4 A Kigurumi for Bucky

Bucky stuck innumerable things in Steve's face over the years, blueberry pie and half-dead frogs during the Early Years; topography maps and coffee in World War II; during the dark age of "Who the hell is Bucky?" Steve became way too intimately acquainted with the barrel of an Uzi and the fascinating advancements made by Hydra in metal knuckle technology. These days Bucky was far more likely to stick malfunctioning electronics and his ass in Steve's face, not at the same time, but generally in the same day. Everyday.

Today he offered a variation.

"What the __hell__ is that?" Steve's confusion oozed out of his mouth despite his best efforts to support all of Bucky's quirks and queries, this one had him stumped. His skeptical gaze dragged down the fuzzy item; a full-body-length bright blue, to red and white stripes in the middle that ended in bright red again, held less than six inches from his nose. It begged for a blurted, uncensored response.

"I have no idea," Bucky spoke with the solemnity he reserved for specific topics: Lying about his involvement in house disasters, trying to impress Steve and any and all interactions with one Sam Wilson. A metal two-finger grip on the faintest sliver of material, he thrust the questionable item half the distance closer to Steve's face. A sucked in bite to his bottom lip as he studied the adorable way Steve's eyes crossed when his feet remained rooted in place, a testament to his level of unadulterated Bucky devotion.

"What should I do with it?" A direct request for guidance. A sure sign of the perplexity of the situation.

"Where did you get it?" Steve's slow hand attempt to send the item back towards Bucky met with a stiff-armed resistance that stalemated in a square-shouldered face-off, the soft garment hanging between them, two hands, flesh pressed to metal, fingers entwined. Bucky took the opportunity for a slow stroked taste of skin by a metal appendage, never miss a skin-to-metal opportunity, his basic tenet in life these days.

Steve broke their intimate moment of shared dilemma, "Please don't tell me you ordered it online."

"Noooo. You confiscated my credit card, remember?" Bucky didn't hide his outright sarcasm at Steve's parental-mimicking desperate measures. A door-slamming, foot-stomping response to his newfound joy of ordering an innumerable array of scented and flavored lubricants then stashing them in every corner of the house, by the hundreds. Steve went with the flow, a willing, enthusiastic participant in the great quest of sex on top of, in and under every piece of furniture in the house. Never wondering how the lube was conveniently right there wherever they ended up doing the deed.

The thrill of having Bucky back in his life out-did any curiosity as to why every time he went down on Bucky his mind flashed to apple pie and cinnamon toast. He chalked it up to olfactory hallucinations.

Until the fateful day when two things occurred: One, Sam's dive on the sofa in preparation for an evening of reruns of the X-Files popped open the six tubes that were stashed under the pillows, releasing a cacophony of smells that lasted for weeks despite open windows and odor absorption devices. And two, the bill came.

"No. You stole it?" Steve's usual gorgeous blue eyes morphed into a sea of spiky green flecks that Bucky had come to associate with how miffed he was on a scale of 0 to 10. At this particular moment, he gauged it as a three, miffed without full-on card revoking pissed. Not like Mission Cartagena and the great stolen bikini argument. Romanova loved it, the bikini, maybe she loved the argument too, hard to tell with a Widow. Steve was not impressed with the stealing or with the fact that Bucky knew what size she wore. A quick flashback to the sweat-inducing pressure of explaining how body disposal skills translated into being adept at guessing bikini sizes.

It took three full days of raspy-voiced yammering, a quart of his treasured chocolate cherry ice cream and of course a blow job to finally tone down the green flecks back to his placid blue. Bucky didn't mind the blow job part. Punishment with perks.

"I did not steal it." A rush to qualify the denial, "It was given to me. By Wilson." Bucky offered that tidbit of information with as much drama as he could muster which amounted to quite a bit. Steve thought he could hear an underlying dramatic musical score ghosting through the bedroom.

"Sam gave it to you?" They both looked with matching squinted-eyed caution and muttered, "Why?"

The question hung unanswered as their joined hands spread the item to its full glory between them. A full adult-sized bright blue Captain America footed onesie complete with a pillowed shield, attached red boots and the signature bold **A** on the goggled hoodie. The slow creeping smile that filled Bucky's face reflected not only the heights of his joy over a new Captain America outfit but the depth of his cunning reserved for moments such as these.

Steve full-on recognized the dichotomy of that smile, "A Kigurumi? Are you serious? No, you can't."

"Wilson owes me." A return to the ominous tone that spoke of past hurts, oaths made and vengeance left unsatisfied his quiet, somber finality, "He ruined my Captain America sleep pants. Remember."

Bucky's love of the sleep pants knew no bounds. Their appearance in the house a low-key affair, like some dark relic from the Golden Age of Dragons, the origin story remained a mystery. Dark blue with tiny silver, white and red shields all over them. Bright red __Captain America__ cursively written in strategic locations. He loved them so much that he never took them off. Nope. Never. Well except to have sex. Mostly. Yes, except to have sex because Steve insisted and yanked them off, which was one of the reasons Bucky wore them all the time for the rush of Steve tearing them off his body without actually damaging the delicate and worn threading.

There was something groin-wrenching about Steve Rogers full-body pressing him to the wall, tongue down his throat, hot fingers digging deep into the flesh of his ass, right before those fingers wrapped around the waistband of the Cap pants and tugged hard, yanking his hips forward. The feel of the soft fleece, slightly itchy material dragging down his thighs, the waistband elastic catching on his cock, Steve's teasing linger of its pressure, not an all-at-once ripping away of clothing but a slow, nerve-tingling heat-producing run along his skin. The whole damn ritual drove him crazy, a word he was loathed to use given his current circumstance of persistent, repetitive behaviors and that damn Voice in his head. This small-c-crazy worked just fine.

Wash day proved challenging though. Bucky sitting on the dryer, naked, waiting for the wash cycle to be done. Arguing with Steve about putting them back on while wet.

"You'll prune up your balls." Steve's logical argument.

"You're gonna tear these off me in five minutes, so who cares. They'll dry hanging on the end of the bed." A one-footed hopping struggle to pull clean wet fleece up over his ass, "Better yet," he stumbled to press Steve against the dryer, force his hands between his thighs, "They'll dry just from your body heat." A husky-voiced murmur, a hard thrust of his hips, followed by the tip of his tongue licking a wet line up Steve's neck to end deep in his mouth. The rhythmic motion of rubbing groin to groin proved his point was valid. The only part of the sleep pants that were wet by the time Steve bent him over the washing machine was the hem.

Steve moved on from the wash-day struggle. Regarding the sleep pants, anyway, not the sex part. He gave up trying to wash them in the hope that Bucky would eventually notice the odor and creaky sort of stiffness that develops in material that has reached its maximum dirt quotient.

He didn't.

"Fifty bucks. Firm." Sam's index finger tapped insistent on the kitchen island, a micro-pool of sweat marked his place. "One hour. Starting, fifteen minutes ago. Roasted kigurumi. That thing will be up in flames in the grill by dinnertime right after the sirachi chicken." Sam's baseline calm and collected approach went out the window when it came to Barnes. A quiver in his voice, a hint of sweat at his temple the weird way his body projected an aura of intensity that washed over Natasha like a mini-sonic boom, the sure tell that he was revving up yet another battle of wits with their favorite assassin roommate.

The vibrational energy being emitted from his body a clear signal that money would be exchanging hands at the end of the battle. Not in his favor.

In the year since Bucky came home and the betting wars began Sam had lost the exact amount of one thousand, three hundred and forty-two dollars and sixteen cents. He won one bet by accident. A double negative that confused the hell out of him but he ended up with one dollar and eighty-six cents, so he was happy while it lasted.

Natasha's studious gaze never wavered from the three-color centerfold laid out on the counter in front of her. A hand brought the travel mug of coffee to her lips, a slow and thoughtful sip, a raised finger to stop his pulled in breath to continue his wagering, she quizzed, "Why are you antagonizing him. This will not end well. It never does."

"I am not antagonizing. I owe him. This is payback, no, no, not payback." A raised hand and awkward laugh, "This is a peace offering." He leaned close, his confession vibrating in her ear, "I wrecked the sleep pants remember. He's been stalking me ever since."

His insistent stare at her cheek, her stubborn refusal to move her eyes from the centerfold, they collectively recalled the Captain America Sleep Pants Disappearance episode in the never-ending saga of Living With Barnes and Rogers.

Every day Bucky wore the same pants, sitting on the sofa, lying in the middle of the mahogany table in the tactical room - during team briefings; wrestling with Steve on the gym mats, or worse. Sam attributed the heavy breathing emanating from the gym one night to an extra enthusiastic sparring session but the too distinct "Fuck me, Stevie" was a dead giveaway that grappling had progressed to the most invasive of holds, taking the "No holds barred" mantra to whole new meaning.

Those sleep pants, collecting dirt, day-in, and day-out, sweat, and lord knows what else in the microfibers of their pathetic existence, the final straw came when Sam walked in to see Bucky's sleep pants-clad butt perched on the kitchen island next to the sliced honey roasted turkey, swiss cheese and bulkie rolls meant for lunch.

The fateful solo plan was formed, mapped out and executed within hours.

Sam Wilson for the good of his housemates and the protection of their health, under cover of darkness and the unabashed throes of wall-banging, bed squeaking sex between two well-endowed super soldiers, undertook the ultimate self-sacrificing mission. Obtain the offending garment and autoclave it, or at the very least soak them in bleach for a week. Falcon night-vision goggles strapped to his face, clean black sweats on his body, he belly crawled into Steve's bedroom, the silent litany of "Don't sweat, he'll smell you," dancing through his mind, he carefully, sneakily pulled the coveted Captain America sleep pants from the bedpost and stealth-crawled backward out of the room.

Sam was pretty damn proud of himself for this mission-accomplished moment. He braced for the aftermath.

A sweat-filled moment when Bucky confronted him in the living room the next day, a tremor shaking his hair, plain black sweats, Steve's sweats, a touch too long hanging low on his hips, the rasped question; "Did you steal my Cap pants, Wilson?"

Sam almost felt bad when he lied, "Nope. I did not steal your Cap pants, Barnes." Technically not a lie, the pants were not 'stolen' only confiscated. Semantics. He attributed the queasy feeling in his gut to the bratwurst he had for breakfast, a suppressed burp seemed to encourage Barnes to move on, which prompted a mental note to add burping to his anti-Barnes arsenal of tactics.

The rest of the week was filled with alternately avoiding and observing Barnes literally tear the house apart searching for his beloved Cap sleep pants. Sam sat pensively on the deck sipping his Pina Colada as pot after pan flew past his head. A lasagna pan landing fifty feet out, he speculated how far the various sized pots would fly, sort of like Olympic shot put only without the painted lines. He marveled at the strength of the metal arm when a frying pan lodged in a tree trunk a mile out.

An offered frowny-face faux sympathy look when Bucky finally laid face-down on the kitchen floor for three hours despite Steve's best efforts at persuasion. Natasha stepped over him, Sam skirted around him. Steve laid head-to-head with him. Ultimately he dragged him across the floor by both hands, up to his feet, threw him over his shoulder and off to bed they went rocking the wall once again.

Sam kept his regret a close-guarded secret, even from himself. Mostly it was a small tickle in the back of his brain that called him an asshole. Once; when Barnes drowned his sorrow soaking in the cold water tub and Natasha had to run to the basement bathroom. She was pissed and glared the knowing glare at Sam. That was the extent of his remorse.

Three weeks later said sleep pants were found in a bucket of bleach on the back porch, a faded murk of blue and white, streaked with red, utterly unrecognizable as an homage to the First Avenger. Sam, in a regrettable fit of guilt and remorse, admitted to the terrible deed. Needless to say, the aftermath was painful for all involved except Natasha who has a ton more sense than the boys and decided she'd lay low in Paris for a week and leave them to find their Kumbaya moment on their own. She padlocked her bedroom door, wired it to the electric socket and went on her man-free week unencumbered.

It took Steve three days to find Bucky sitting in a tree overlooking the house, his loaded sniper rifle cradled in hand. Black shoe polish smeared across his face, a bag of Doritos tucked in the crook of a branch; he finally climbed down when Steve promised to have sex with him on the bike. The one spot they'd missed during the great sex experiment. It took a whole lot of scrubbing to get that black stuff off both their faces.

Luckily Sam had a cold that week and dodged both figurative and real bullets by staying in the house the whole time. It helped that he avoided all the windows too. His mama didn't raise a fool, he knew the sniper rifle was missing and wherever that rifle went so goes Bucky.

Sam's insistent, quivering voice interrupted Natasha's shuddering recall of the sleep pant escapade, "I have to end this. I can't sleep. I don't dare eat. Nat, I wake up to him standing in the doorway. No words, no movement. Standing, staring. I try to leave; he blocks the door. I have to call for Steve to come to get him. I mean I literally have to call him on his cell phone. In the next room, damn it. Every night he's an inch closer. Last night," A quick prairie-dog look around the kitchen, a resumed hushed tone, "He was lying in my bed. Shit. How does Steve do it? Those cold steel eyes, he doesn't blink. Do you have any idea how creepy that is? Have you seen him do that?"

Natasha offered an unwavering stare, "Actually. Yes," her gaze returned to the lovely Russian Blue cat family sprawled across the pages.

Sam's obsessive focus began to rival Bucky's, "Get this. Two days ago, he handed me a burger and smiled. Yes. Smiled at me." An insistent tapped finger on the centerfold page, brushed aside by Natasha, "One of those corner-raised, out-of-his-mind diabolical smirks, holding out a jalapeno cheese-covered, pickle with mayo burger. Damn, I hated to throw that out but it had to go, had to go."

"You don't really think he'd try to poison you. Steve would withhold sex for a week, maybe more. He'd never chance that." She pushed the centerfold to gaze at it from a new angle.

Sam shook his head and muttered, "He loved those sleep pants, Nat. It was an accident. A complete and total accident."

Natasha's raised eyebrow conveyed her skepticism, "Sam, cut to the chase. I've got an article about cat breeding to read here."

"I got him a kigurumi. A Captain America onesie complete with pillow shield and a hoodie. Here's the deal. It's utterly ridiculous, and he'll never wear it, he'll laugh his ass off behind closed doors with Steve and toss it, no, he'll burn it. I'm willing to take the hit; he can laugh all he wants at me if it gets me off the hook. I replaced the sleep pants with something so stupid and childish he'll never wear it. No more obsession with Captain America. End of story."

"You are aware that he has sex multiple times a day with the former Captain America correct?"

"Yes. I am acutely aware of that fact."

"Great, just checking." Natasha allowed for his momentary lapse of sanity and asked, "And you want to place a bet that he'll burn the kigurumi within the next thirty minutes, is that the bet? Burn it versus wear it? Fifty dollars?"

"Yes, the clock is ticking, thirty minutes now and fifty bucks."

Her cold-eyed Black Widow stare raked him down then up. Well, maybe the eyes of Natasha Romanova, a well-versed operative with numerous skills especially when it came to reading Sam and taking his money, she took up the challenge, "Two hundred dollars and you're on." The Red Room raised no fools either.

Sam shook his head, paused, looked at the clock, squinted at her, then, "You are on. Two hundred."

A heavy sigh, he stationed himself at the end of the island, a toe-tapping, knuckle-cracking bundle of anticipation. His eyes followed the slow tick-tock of the wall clock.

His muttered, "One minute to go," didn't break Natasha's concentration on the absorption capacities of various kitty litters. He scrambled in his mind about the dilemma of contingency plans not thought out. What if Bucky doesn't come down the stairs at all? What if he comes down in time but keeps the damn thing and never wears it? What if he gives it back and says, 'Gee thanks, but it doesn't fit, can you get extra, extra large?' Worse yet what if he asks Sam to get one for Steve too? His anxious musings interrupted by the sound of soft padded feet approaching. The building anxiety got the best of him, he shuffled Natasha's magazine out from under her eyes, she pressed a thumb to a trigger point in his wrist that sent a wicked zing of pain up his arm, he released the magazine and gripped the island's edge. A long pulled in breath for the much-anticipated swinging of the betting pendulum.

Bucky slow sauntered into the kitchen, the classic rolling, I-got-my-shit-together stride that he liked to employ while on a mission or while screwing with Wilson. A straight-faced Steve trailing behind. The nonchalant wander led to the fridge, the milk jug removed and brought to his mouth, sans glass, he chugged down the entire gallon. Wet white rivulets of milk missing his mouth to land unceremoniously down the front of the bright blue with red and white striped waist Captain America kigurumi aka onesie that wrapped around his body. A quick wipe of his mouth with the faux red fleece Cap gloves, Bucky pulled the hood over his head, adjusted the eye holes to his face, looked straight at Wilson and grinned, probably the biggest grin Sam had ever seen cross good old Barnes's face ever.

The open-palmed tap of Natasha's hand on the counter woke Sam from his stupor.

Notes: "Kigurumi" comes from a combination of two Japanese words: kiru("to wear") and nuigurumi ("stuffed toy"). Traditionally, it referred specifically to the performers wearing the costume, but the word has since grown to include the costumes themselves. A one-piece garment with a hood.


	5. Chapter 5 Scamming Sam

Bucky had Steve exactly where he wanted him: On his knees approximately three centimeters from his groin.

Legs spread the precise width needed to allow broad, sculpted shoulders to nestle heat between his thighs. Hands nudging playful with his junk. Bucky's mesmerized stare down the length of his body caught in the riveting embrace of Steve's blue intensity wide-open staring right back at him.

Knees losing their lock, a stumble back, hands catching the wall. Rush of fiery warmth chasing across his skin, bead of sweat forming to trickle undulating down his chest, directly towards the object of his obsession. Craven ache for that drop of sweat to slide unencumbered to the open mouth awaiting its arrival. Blue gaze flickering to the droplet pulled back to lock with his eyes by Bucky's faintest of whines.

A sight to behold. Steven Grant Rogers, former Captain America, the rhythmic darting of his tongue in perverse persuasion. The man sometimes known as Nomad, occasionally answering to Jerk and/or Punk, always utterly controlled by the endearment "Stevie," performing one of his most valuable well-honed and appreciated talents known to Bucky and all of mankind.

Well, hopefully not all of mankind, distinct flash of rational jealousy for an irrational image, Bucky's loose and tangential chasing of a hypothetical tail back to his Steve appreciation thoughts.

Steve getting the Captain America kigurumi zipper unstuck without tearing out Bucky's copious groin hairs and without catching his even more tender dick skin in the process.

Bucky so very much appreciated Steve's raw talent.

"Damn, Buck, maybe it's time to retire this outfit. Don't you think?" Steve's words as gentle as his finger's manipulation of the worn last two inches of zipper, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips as if that would help the stickiness. So adorable.

Making it harder, yes, harder in more ways than one for Bucky to hold still. Both hands reluctantly tucked at the small of his back to keep from carding his fingers in Steve's longish hair and assisting said tongue to find its way to his skin.

Bucky just really wanted Steve's mouth on his cock. There, it's been said.

"Use your teeth." Bucky's graveled stuttered beg, accompanied by the highly enticing slow thrust of his hips, teasing thirty-three millimeters from Steve's face.

"No. Not falling for that again. I used my teeth the last time. We did not succeed in getting the zipper unstuck. We did succeed in ripping the crotch out." Steve switching to his parenting tone, "I am not going to have Tasha laughing her ass off at me sewing it back together while you sulk naked in the kitchen with a paper towel in your lap. Not again."

"You skipped the good parts." Husky-voiced reminder, spoken with reverence, "The sex part." Bucky couldn't help himself, one hand then the next crept from their hiding place to rake into Steve's hair. "You're really really good at that. You know. Your mouth, my cock. You know, come on, Stevie. Just sayin'."

Nodding an appreciative assent, Steve's tongue still working the corner of his mouth, fingers fiddling with the zipper, tugging cautious up, folding fleecy interference, to drag the tiny metal groove across stubborn plastic teeth. His head bobbing and weaving, gaze now locked on the wayward zipper, trying to not give in to Bucky's persuasive pressure, hands entangled in his hair, countering with equal evasion, a true match of wills rivaling their Battle on the Bridge.

Steve the picture of stalwart determination, defier of at least 117 governments at the last Wiki check; derisive laughter at Senators, Representatives, and Presidents; Ender of Hydra; Scoffer at the Accords, gave in to the singularly-focused and extreme pressured pull of Bucky's hands.

Final word muffled by the embedding of his face into Bucky's groin, "Shit."

Also muffled by Bucky's hissed celebratory, "Yesssss," throwing both hands in the air to allow Steve utter and complete access to do his best work.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

"How long can one human being wear a pile-producing, static-collecting, baggie-butted and yet at the same time crack-clinging, sweat-smelling Captain America Onesie?" Sam's question appearing existential, his true meaning firmly grounded in pragmatic realism. His real concern as stated multiple times that day, "Bet me. He's got a body hidden. A hundred dollars says it's a body." He stared wide-eyed, not blinking at the pristinely cut and fabulously colored white-blonde back of Natasha's head.

She stood at the precipice of the broom closet, one foot in a mop bucket, the hard gray curly-cue of a used dry rag mop hanging an inch from her face. A state-of-the-art eighteen bulb LED headlamp strapped to her forehead, the picture of spelunking readiness.

Nat's answer spoken deep-voiced, gritted, "Unknown. But on tonight's episode we will delve into the most mysterious of hidey-places seeking the truth," a hint of a false echo strikingly similar to a specific television show they had marathon watched two nights earlier. Giving credence to Steve's theory that the Travel Channel, dominating their downtime, had indeed employed some kind of mind-control subterfuge.

Their mission created, planned and accepted at breakfast that morning. Find out why Barnes, dressed in the cheekily ever-present Captain America kigurumi, was slinking in and out of the broom closet employing his best furtive look-around despite everyone sitting in the kitchen while he "snuck" to spend time with the cleaning utensils.

Sam' s stage-whispered question to anyone who would listen, "Doesn't he realized we're all sitting here watching him?"

Steve's focus remaining on his Bucky prepared breakfast. A furrowed-brow study of a bowl of oatmeal with semi-precisely laid pieces of strawberries and smooshed blueberries in an oddly familiar pattern arranged across the surface. If he turned his head just right, it might be a shield? Maybe? His muttered unconscious answer as he cautious dipped a spoon into his homage, "He's a ghost. Remember?"

Sam's quivering excitement at the nearness of breaching one of Barnes's Inner Sanctums, pulled from him a sweat-producing aura that interjected itself into Nat's highly refined bubble of "The only thing to fear is fear itself." Her added silent addendum, "And Barnes finding out."

Wilson never saw the laser-sharp and blinding quick elbow that stunned his solar plexus taking his breath but not his hearing. Nat's gritted order, "You're the lookout, remember? One bird chirp if you see, hear or smell Barnes. Got it?"

And then she was gone. Face-first dive, head bowed, hands shoving aside an entirely redundant and varied array of cleaning tools, quick reflection as to how many brooms are too many brooms. She forged ahead, shaking free of the bucket, shoving aside the various and sundry piles of "stuff" collected by Bucky, not Steve, all of which belonged in the Smithsonian right next to the hand-wrung washing machine.

Sam's voice a garbled murk, drowned out by the cleaning accouterments and his hyper-alert look-out duties, solemn yet a-quiver with excitement, "What's back there? Natasha, talk to me. Guns? No, can't be. Those are all ziplocked bagged and buried in the houseplants. Right! It's that damn rocket launcher, isn't it? Wait'll Steve hears about this. Can't wait to tell him." Sam glanced at the ceiling, stealing a moment of daydreamed revenge, pulled out of it by Nat's groan, "You okay? Natasha, come in, answer me." Sam's wrist to his mouth, growled regret for not using their comms.

Tenuous exploration, darkness surrounding, a pool of bright white from her headlamp bouncing across rags hanging like semi-soft stalactites. Her expedition came stuttering to a halt when her boot squished something on the floor. Quick glance down, the jittering light illuminating the bottom of her boot, an irrevocably flattened tube of Crazy Glue now forever combined with a demolished packet of tiny red, white and blue stars. Hundreds of stars. Literally.

Dropping to her knees, yanking her boot from her foot, desperate attempt to restore the disturbed landscape, erasing her foray into the preserved environment. Little sticky blue stars, red stars clinging tenacious to her fingers. The more she tried to free herself the worse it became, hundreds, nay, thousands of red stars, white stars, scattering across the floor, sticking to her shins, spreading like a tiny patriotic plague all over brooms, mops, buckets, rags, her body.

Thoughts racing to calculate whether Amazon would overnight the exact replica of the Star Box and Crazy Glue. Quiet veil of fear falling. How to distract Barnes from the broom closet long enough to obtain the replacement items. An instantaneous plan hatched, a backpedaling two and a half pirouettes out of the closet to land toe-to-toe with Sam, separated by her boot.

"Clint!" Her one-word re-emergence declaration.

"Clint? Clint is in there? What the hell?" Peeking over her shoulder, Sam's fear settling deep within his soul.

"No. Not in there. Dinner. Tonight." Deft maneuver of his hand to accept the evidence stars sprinkling loose to weasel their way deep into the threads of his sweater. She hissed with great gravity close to his cheek, "We need a diversion."

Sam's whispered demand, "What? What did you find?" His voice deeply tremulous, "What's in there? It's a body isn't it?"

"Later. You do not want to know." A rough shove to embed the imprint of her boot heel into his chest, sprinkling stars to drop over his clothing. A shared moment of brief remembrance of Barnes at the Fourth of July cook-out, technically a memory of Steve, towel in hand chasing Barnes across the lawn; a naked Barnes covered in red, white and blue sparklies.

Natasha shook off the all too vivid memory and barked, "Get rid of these. Not my boot. Just the stars." The uneven clip/pad/clip/pad of her feet fast walking into the living room echoing in Sam's stunned hearing

xxxxxxxxxx

"Joke's over. Time to end it." Steve spoke to Bucky's big toe as it wiggled itself free through the hole in the red nubby soled faux boots. Naked on the floor, snuggling the length of Bucky's fleecy reminder of his former persona, the bright red soft fuzzy boots still in place despite sex in their number three favorite location. The bedroom floor. Internal marveling that sex could be had, albeit not penetrative sex, but an excellent encounter regardless, while Bucky continued to wear the Captain America kigurumi in full regalia.

A fact becoming a bit disconcerting to Steve. Sex with Bucky while dressed as himself. Not so bad if it were the actual Captain America uniform but a fleecy substitute...not so much. "Come on, I'll help you get out of it. Time to put this to rest."

"No. I am on a quest." Bucky rolled to his feet in that dizzying display of nimbleness that always kept Steve reaching for the empty space he just vacated. Figurative and literal spaces.

An equal display of dexterity, Steve leaped to examine the top of the bureau, "You stopped them again didn't you. Damn it. I thought we had an agreement."

"No. Steve. I did not stop the medications." The sing-song lilt grating if it was anyone else but Bucky, "I'm in a battle of wills with Birdman." He added as he stumbled out of the bedroom tugging with marked ease to pull the zipper up, "I've got him on the run."

Steve's keen observance skills didn't let him down, as he stood naked in the doorway, yelling after him, "Hey, that damn zipper isn't really stuck. Liar."

xxxxxxxxxxx

Bucky stood statue-still in the living room, back to the television, the slow left-to-right scan of his eyes, the only indication he wasn't stuffed and stuck in the middle of the room like a Cosplayer who ran out of money, material, and motivation. Leaving them to buy the bright blue, red and white slightly ratty but still very appealing Captain America kigurumi as their costume versus making it from scratch like all the Real Cosplayers do.

The chosen location for the reconnaissance of his target not random. Off the worn path in the rug and across the old wood flooring, it flew in the face of the much-debated Feng Shui that Natasha seemed to speak of with fondness.

He snickered and mouthed the word at Steve behind her back the first time she invoked the concept. Not the safest thing to do. Bucky's neck still hurt from the thigh hold she got him in on the back porch. He was pissed that she never did that crap to Steve. "What kind of dirt have you got on her? She never tries to kill you, not like me, she tried to garrote me the last time I took the milk outta the fridge. I mean it's just milk, there's more downstairs."

Steve never answered the "Dirt on Natasha" part of the question although he offered that drinking directly from the milk jug was frowned upon in polite society.

Bucky shrugged.

His target directly in his sights, one Sam Wilson. A.k.a. Falcon, a.k.a. "The Other Boyfriend," when Steve made the distinct miscalculation of aligning just a bit too much with Wilson's side of things and of course the default and preferred "Birdman."

Bucky had a plan. His singular mission as stated by himself to Steve and the Voice in his head: "Force Wilson to fork up the money to make me take the kigurumi off." Targeted outcome: three hundred and thirty-three dollars. Methods of approach: Annoying constant wearing of the Onesie within three feet of Wilson. Day and night. Standing very very still. Staring at him.

Sam slouched on the sofa, remote in his hand, fierce-pointing it at the television, a repetitive jabbing motion that seemed more of an exercise for his tennis elbow than for actually changing the channel. Of course, he had to add a little side-way action to get around Barnes when he appeared three steps closer after Sam blinked.

A desperate search for the reruns of the UFC 217 bout between St. Pierre and Bisping a hell-of-a-match that made Sam want to learn some new moves hoping for an edge up on Barnes in the "friendly-wagering" department documented across the whiteboard in the gym. It grated on Sam every time he walked through the room. ****Barnes 150 Wilson 0**** the bold and looming score followed him everywhere he went in the room, the zero next to his name stalking him, never disappearing even when he tried to erase it or turned the lights out, he swore it glowed in the dark.

Which it did.

Bucky ordered glow-in-the-dark write-on-wipe-off markers for just such an occasion and because he was kind of fascinated by all this new stuff only he lied to Wilson and said: "No man, you're dreaming." He changed the subject and offered faux support, "You can do this, keep up the good work, you almost had me that last hold. I'm still feeling it, right here." He pointed to the spot on his neck where Romanova had nearly decapitated him the week before.

Sam remained unphased by the standing and staring. Or at least he tried to appear to be unphased. Life with Bucky meant they could find him in the oddest of locations on any given day.

Standing naked in an empty, dry tub in the middle of the night, in the dark - the one and only time they ever heard Natasha let out a blood-curdling girly-scream followed by "Damn it, Barnes, what the hell are you doing." Everyone knew Barnes could move fast, no one knew he could scale the bathroom wall, somersault out the door and land on his feet in less than three seconds.

The stun discs proved to be a great motivator. And why the hell did Romanova carry stun discs to the bathroom at night in her own home?

They ignored the hours he stood on the back porch watching them come and go, in and out, chattering and laughing all while he stood twitchless in the corner. "Steve, your boyfriend's creepy." Sam had to say it mostly because it really ticked Sam off when they had to drag in a truckload of groceries while he did his Yeti impression.

One of the more dramatic standing events was the time they found him in the middle of the field behind the house, naked of course. In a snowstorm. At night. Steve had to employ three bags of double stuff Oreos and the promise of sex to get Bucky back in the house; sex with Steve, not with the Oreos, although it took three trips to the washing machine to get the chocolate stains out of the sheets so on the technicality it goes to sex with Oreos for the score.

Anyway, enough rambling.

Slowly Bucky turned, step by step, methodical closing of the gap, sliding one red nubbed foot then the other towards the object of his pursuit.

The all too suspicious Sam Wilson, rising from the cushy confines of their overstuffed sofa purchased online from Anthropologie by Natasha during a year-end clearance sale, sweat forming on their respective brows. Tension rising incremental each for their own reasons, Sam wondering if he had a red star stuck to his forehead, too afraid to draw attention to himself with a quick swipe at the sweat, he stood his ground, socked toes spread wide on the tastefully braided rug.

Fingers twitching at their sides, Wilson's hold on the TV remote a tight-fisted, hair-trigger readiness. Barnes's fingers tapping sets of threes on his thighs, a distracting habit since he could do it in counterpoint. Left hand tapping a split second before the right. Squinting eyes meeting, the clock on the wall soft ticking one then two then all the way to twelve.

Bucky's gaze slipping calculating from Wilson's eyes, to run an assessing and appreciative look over his body.

Wilson squirming internal at the suspicious assessment. The remote cocked and ready at his hip, finger sweating a thin coating of wetness on the woofer button, deft employment of intense bass sound his closest thing to a weapon. Quick regret for not running his hand under the pillows for one of the nine knives he knew Barnes had stashed under there.

One word muttered a single drawn-out syllable turned into at least three, Bucky's eyes widening sending the heat of genuine fear through Wilson's body, "St-aaarr-sss." A quick repeat in case Wilson didn't catch it the first time, "Stars. You have red, white and blue stars on your sweater."

"No I don't, you're hallucinating. Did you take your meds today?"

"Yes. Wait, no. Forget that. I only answer to Steve." Shake of his head, clearing his thoughts, "And yes, I can see them. Right. There."

The tip of a metal finger teasing between the threads of Sam's sweater directly over where his heart should be if he had one. Bucky digging deeper, metal grazing skin, pressed scooping motion, final precise tug without disturbing the delicate threads, to emerge one finger balancing a tiny red shiny star at its tip. Triumphant smirk crossing his face, finger flaunting its treasure at the tip of Wilson's nose, eyes crossing to take it in.

Sam's staunch denial, taking a page from Natasha's gaslighting article that he had conveniently stashed in his nightstand, "Not a star. You're imaging it. It's part of my sweater."

"No, it's not. Your sweater's green; red does not go with green except at Christmas. Duh."

"Red goes with everything. Where have you been for the past..." Wilson catching his words, a fleeting nanosecond of regret, pulling it back to amend, "Year and a half?"

"Nice catch Birdman." Bucky moving a third of an inch closer. Red fleece fake Captain America boot encroaching on Wilson's toes, "You've been in the closet."

Not one to back down even from Barnes, Sam stood his ground, not much choice with his foot pinned to the floor, "No that would be you and Steve in the '40s."

Bucky's sharp reach to grab the edge of the kigurumi's hood, pulling a flinch from Sam. A dramatic pull of the fleece over his hair, narrowing eyes, taking his victory payment in the form of a bead of sweat that dripped from Wilson's nose. "Wow. Just wow."

Maybe Sam's finger slipped on the remote, his hand was sweaty after all; anxiety triggered by the question of whether there was more of the red, white and blue evidence stuck to his face, could be the nearness of Barnes. Full on Captain America Onesie mode, hood deployed, bony toes digging into his foot, but Sam Wilson's finger engaged the TV remote. Full blast thundering of "We Will Rock You" by Queen, the walk-in song for one of the undercard fighters in that UFC fight that they all forgot about, the bass button stuck on 10, vibrating the brick-a-brac on the bookshelf and causing the nearby ficus plant to wilt ever so slightly.

The two bull-headed opponents; not on the TV but in the living room barely heard Natasha's screamed announcement, "Clint's here! Everyone. Look, Clint finally made it!"

Clint Barton, amiable, not one to be easily thrown by confrontations, both televised and in real life, strode into the room, hand waving as he crossed towards them, smiling and shouting, "Is that a Captain America kigurumi? Nice. That's great. Where's the shield? I've always wanted one!"

Neither Wilson nor Barnes breaking their intense eye wrestle, face-to-face, mere millemeters apart, wicked serious scowls, Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes for once spoke with one united voice, shouting above the lilting and sorely missed tones of Freddie Mercury, together making an emphatic statement, "Get in line!"

xxxxxxxxxx

"Tell me something." Steve's words soft-spoken, breath warm on bare skin, mouth leaving faint wetness on Bucky's chest. Slow wandering pressure, side-to-side rounded flesh to rounded flesh, marking progression down his body.

Bucky's back pressed to the wall, breathing deep anticipation, watching, pupils wide in shadowed light, wanting Steve's mouth to hurry, not wanting him to move too fast, murmur near to inaudible, fingers tangling hair, "Less talk, more of this."

"Sure. But answer my question," Steve's hands slipping to maneuver fleece to the edge of Bucky's shoulders, near to off, not quite; his pause a teasing hesitation, "Why are you wearing this all the time? I mean I get it, you're in this competition with Sam, this game of one-up-manship but this? What's it about?"

Head dropping, mouth pressing Steve's neck, hands pulling hips, Bucky needing him closer, scent filling his senses, knowing the answer, too uncertain to say it out loud.

Steve coaxing the words, playful teeth taking an earlobe, knees finding their place, taking Bucky's willing opening, "It isn't about a bet, right?"

Breathed sigh, mouth searching skin, words whispered close, "I need you next to my skin. Always and forever."

Bodies moving slow in tandem, hands exploring skin,breaths matching, lips brushing flesh, "But I'm here."

"We have a history you know." Tension hinting through Bucky's voice, "Losing one another."

Steve cupping Bucky's face, gentle pull, gaze connecting intense, "Not anymore. Not again. Never separated again."

"It makes me think of you. If you leave the room, go see people. Go places I won't, can't go. Every minute we're not together, that I can't see you, feel you. I know it's stupid, childish. It makes me think you're on my skin." A faint shrug, Bucky willing to do anything Steve wanted, "I can take it off. I'll never wear it again if that's what you want."

Warmth spreading a sheen of redness to Steve's skin, hearing Bucky's confession, shared ache of losing one another, seeing his own pain play out in Bucky's eyes, "No. It's good. I don't care if you wear it until it falls apart. Just right now, let me take it off of you. I'll do it."

Some souls in the outside world viewed Steve as pure of heart, a stalwart Puritanical specimen. Bucky knew better. Eyes closed, head falling back, reveling in the sound of Steve's voice spewing expletives while pounding him into the wall, or the mattress or the shower come to think of it. Dexterity unmatched in battle and the bedroom, his profound gymnastic flexibility, ditto the bedroom; all these skills coming together in one unparalleled package.

The most recent newly acquired skill brought Bucky to a whole new level of appreciation. Steve's profound talent at tugging the very long zipper of the Captain America kigurumi down the length of his body with extreme slowness and precision. Sans pinching delicate skin, avoiding the aforementioned tender groin areas, the grazing tease to his growing cock merely Steve's tongue and not the rude raking of zipper teeth. All while keeping those liquid sparkling flecked with green but ultimately blue eyes locked in a gazed embrace with his own equally sparkling eyes.

A sight to behold, Steven Grant Rogers, former Captain America, right where Bucky wanted him, on his knees with a Captain America kigurumi zipper tucked between his teeth.

No wonder Steve confiscated his phone.

EPILOGUE:

Late that night under the cover darkness, three mops, six brooms, a squeegee thing that worked best at getting snow off the windshield of the truck and the satellite dish, two former Russian assassins met in the broom closet.

Barnes standing in the back corner, Steve's sweatpants hanging a bit too long, fingers curled in the hem of Steve's T-shirt, soft whispered, "Birdman fell for it?"

Romanova shrugged and nodded, "He did."

Huffed quiet laugh, "Seriously? He thought I had a body in here?"

Romanova answered, "Yup. He kept asking why it didn't smell. I told him lime. A whole lot of lime. The stars were a nice touch, Barnes. He had one stuck to his butt when I saw him heading to bed."

Bucky snorted a little too loud for a former assassin. "He paid you?"

"Yes, he did. Sixty for you, forty for me. You'll have to pursue the other two hundred and thirty-three dollars on your own."

"Nah. Not divisible by three. I'm good."

Natasha nodded her goodnight and made the awkward climb out of the darkened closet in silence.

Waiting for her to leave, slow deep breath, Bucky slid to his knees, eyes closing, not needing the faint light filtering in from the kitchen. Metal fingers gentle tracing what he knew was there deep hidden but couldn't quite see. A calendar nailed to the wall, month after month pinned next to next, each day with a star. Memory telling him of the order, red then white then blue, then repeat. One on each day, tied back to that day. Breath slowing deep, peace wrapping warm around his thoughts, remembering Steve's hope, his smile, his excitement crossing the threshold of this house. Leading him home. Their home, together. Bucky wanting to remember it always.


End file.
